


Drabble: Stress Relief

by PickyPicky



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, His Last Vow Spoilers, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 07:52:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PickyPicky/pseuds/PickyPicky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was John doing between Christmas and when Sherlock's fate was decided?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drabble: Stress Relief

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thanks to Ravenscar for bolstering my courage to write and post.
> 
> Not my people, not my sandbox, written with love for the franchise and not for profit.
> 
> Begging the leniency of those who know more about weapons than I. I chose to believe Google, and will live with the results.

Step, step, step, step. Pause. About face. Step, step, step, step. Pause. About face.

"Stop it."

"No, I don't think I will. Tomorrow is the meeting which will decide my best friend's fate, so, no, I don't think I will be stopping!"

"John, there's no need to shout. You're so tense. Pacing a hole through our rug won't help a thing. You need to relieve some stress. I think I know just what will help." Mary walked to the wardrobe and started moving hangers.

"If you're about to pull out something racy, I'll stop you right there. I am definitely not having sex with you today."

"Yes, John, you've made it abundantly clear that we aren't having sex. Thanks for that. I'm not looking for lingere, I'm reaching for, ah! Here." Mary emerged from the closet holding a plain lockbox. A key appeared in her hand and she offered it to John, who looked skeptical. "Go on, take it. It won't bite."

John took the key, fit it to the lock and opened the lid. A gun he hadn't seen since the hallway of the empty house lay nestled in soft cloth. He looked sharply up at Mary.

"I thought we could go to a shooting range. Maybe have a bit of a competition..."

A ghost of a smile played over John's features. "A bit of friendly competition could be nice," he agreed. He grabbed the lockbox from his bedside table and followed her out to the car.

At the range they settled on the terms. Use the whole magazine for each round of play, each area must have two holes to count as a kill shot, most number of kill shots wins. Repeat until bored. Loser buys dinner. 

Mary went first. "Hope a stationary target isn't too boring for you," John teased as Mary aimed. He watched her breathing slow as she squeezed the trigger between breaths.  
"I think I'll manage," she said brightly.

John lifted his weapon in the next booth. He sighted along the barrel and chose his shots carefully. They called their targets back to them to score.

Mary had two hits to the heart, one hit to the right chest, two hits to the forehead, one hit to the face, one hit to the chin, three hits to the solar plexus, one in the lower abdomen and two hits to the left shoulder. John looked at her darkly. "Not good?" She asked facetiously.

"Piss off," John replied. "That's four kill shots."

John looked at his target. He had made two hits to the heart, two to the forehead, two to the solar plexus, and two to the groin. He also had a shot to the throat, one each to the left and right sides of the abdomen, and two to the face. He grinned archly and said, "That's five kill shots for me. I have a taste for Afghani food tonight."


End file.
